


Addicted Still

by Saziikins



Series: Family Ties [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gambling Addiction, M/M, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2014-12-08
Packaged: 2018-02-28 14:09:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2735477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saziikins/pseuds/Saziikins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is hiding in a barn on Christmas Eve, the first Christmas since he began to dismantle Moriarty's web. He thinks about a few Christmases spent with Greg. </p><p>Set before An Open Home, set after Object Permanence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Addicted Still

**Author's Note:**

> This series keeps surprising me... they keep doing things I wasn't expecting them to. Which is wonderful, but also at times means they are rather desperately sad! 
> 
> This is set after the Fall and during Sherlock's years away.

It didn’t do to dwell on the past. Sherlock would tell anyone and everyone that what was done was done, and there was no benefit in imagining anything else.

Except when there was.

Except when you were lying in a barn, trying to keep yourself warm with hay and a single blanket. Except when you were being glared at by a horse that couldn’t understand why you were there. Except when you were trying to wrap a sling around your arm to secure your own broken collarbone, all the while shivering and in agony.

Then, perhaps, it was acceptable to dwell on the past.

It was Christmas Eve, and aside from the horse and the three people who lived in the farmers’ house, there was no one around for miles.

Tomorrow, Sherlock expected to intrude on the cosy Christmas feast the farmer’s wife was cooking up while men from the country’s secret service arrested her for espionage.

Moriarty’s web. The more you dug, the deeper it got. Even just the dregs needed clearing up and disposing of.

And it was Christmas.

From when he was a child, Sherlock’s version of Christmas was boisterous and chaotic. He would much rather encourage Redbeard to eat the turkey than sit down to eat it himself. He would prefer to stick a pin into a plug socket and electrocute himself and be hospitalised than watch the Queen’s Speech.

This year, he would rather be in Greg Lestrade’s arms in his cosy living room, than sat here, cold, injured and alone.

That was not to say Greg Lestrade wanted the same thing.

Last Christmas, Sherlock had told everyone about Lestrade’s cheating wife. Of course, by then, for several years in fact, there had been no wife.

Only a cheap gold ring he wore to pretend and layer upon layer of oft-repeated lies and well-formed tall tales. To say Sherlock was sick of it was an understatement. It wasn’t that he wanted them to be together, no, no, no. But Greg Lestrade was  _his_  and even his fictional wife couldn’t have him any more.

The first Christmas after they’d met, Sherlock turned up at his door on Christmas Eve carrying a bottle of wine, swinging it around.

It was chucking it down with rain, puddles forming alongside the curbs. The drains weren’t coping under the strain.

Greg lived in a block of flats then, with his four-roomed home on the third floor.

Sherlock picked the lock, and before he’d even shoved it open, he’d heard Greg’s warm laughter through the grey door.

“You could just use your key!” Greg shouted out, but there were no footsteps to greet him. Instead, he let Sherlock get on with picking the lock.

Sherlock all but fell through the door.

“Oh, you’re high as a bloody kite,” Greg muttered, staring at him from the sofa. “What the hell are you doing?”

“My brother is evicting me from my flat,” Sherlock declared, slumping down in Greg’s reading chair.

“So you got high.”

“No. He’s evicting me _because_ I’m high. And when I say evicting, I mean he’s finding something incriminating on my landlord’s computer.”

Sherlock sighed, closing his eyes. He was blissfully high, relaxed. Everything made sense. Words weren’t scrolling through his head, sights and sounds were blurred at the edges. Like a painting. Like a William Scott Bell Painting. Like looking at a scene through a cloud.

“All that doesn’t explain why you’re here,” Greg said, as though he had been talking for a while and Sherlock hadn’t heard any of it.

Sherlock reluctantly opened his eyes to peer at him. “You’re alone at Christmas. I’m alone at Christmas. It makes sense.”

Greg snorted. “Not exactly. You forget the bit where I told you I was really glad I was on my own this Christmas. That I wasn’t spending it at my sister’s for that very reason.”

Sherlock closed his eyes again. “You’re all about family and tradition,” he murmured. “You didn’t really want to be alone, you just didn’t want to impose.”

“Apparently imposing isn’t something you have a problem with.”

Sherlock half smiled. “Of course not. Why would I?” He looked back at Greg. “You’re not going to kick me out are you?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

It wasn’t that Greg Lestrade accepted the drugs. It wasn’t that he liked them or encouraged them. But he sort of understood. In the same way that he no longer went to the bookies or gambled on the tables, he knew Sherlock’s vices and knew some of them were hard to destroy.

Greg sighed, rolling his eyes. “Fine,” he said. “But you can give me that bottle of wine for a start.”

Sherlock smiled over at him, standing up and sauntering over to him. He held the bottle out towards Greg before resting one knee on the sofa. He straddled Greg’s lap, wrapping both arms around his neck.

Greg laughed and shook his head. “What the hell are you doing?” he asked.

Sherlock dipped his head, brushing his lips against Greg’s, seeking out his taste. “I thought I’d made that clear.”

Greg’s hands dropped to his hips. “Nope,” he said. “I’m not doing this with you when you’re high.”

Sherlock frowned. “Why?”

“Because I’m not taking advantage of you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It’s not taking advantage when I’m offering myself to you.” Sherlock dropped the wine down onto the sofa. “Look at me.”

Greg’s eyes lifted to his. Sherlock wriggled against his lap. “You want it,” he whispered, leaning forward and kissing Greg’s neck. “You want this. Me. All the time.”

“Sherlock…”

Sherlock kissed his jaw. “You want me. To have me. Writhing underneath you. Or above you.”

Greg swallowed and shook his head. “Don’t,” he whispered.

“Why not?” Sherlock asked, nipping Greg’s bottom lip. “Because you want it? Because you feel bad for wanting it?”

Greg shook his head and cupped Sherlock’s face. “No,” he said. “No, because I hate it when you’re high. Hate it, Sherlock.”

Sherlock frowned at him.

“Didn’t know that, did you?” Greg asked, his arms winding round Sherlock’s waist. “And tomorrow, you’re going to be lying on my bed in pain and shivering and begging me to give you another hit. And I’ll have to pin your hands down so you don’t scratch yourself so much you make yourself bleed. And I hate it, Sherlock. And tomorrow is Christmas Day, and you come round here high. You are a selfish bastard sometimes.”

“Then why bother?” Sherlock hissed at him, yanking himself free of Greg’s hold. “Why do all of that if you hate it so much?”

“Ask myself that every day,” Greg said. Sherlock shook his head and Greg grabbed his wrist, stopping him from leaving. “Stay.”

“No,” Sherlock spat.

“Stay,” Greg repeated, lowering his voice.

“No.”

“Stay,” Greg whispered, lifting Sherlock’s hand and kissing his knuckles. “Spend one night with me that isn’t about sex.”

Sherlock stared at him before lowering himself down onto the sofa.

He found himself being pulled against Greg’s chest, his ear resting over his heart. He curled into the embrace, stroking Greg’s shirt.

“We don’t do this,” Sherlock mumbled.

“I know,” Greg whispered, kissing the top of his head.

Sherlock stayed still for a while, closing his eyes and losing himself back into the clouds in his head. “What does it do for you?” he eventually asked. “The numbers?”

Greg stopped stroking Sherlock's shoulder. “Numbers?”

“Odds. Gambling.”

“It’s winning, isn’t it?” Greg asked, resuming rubbing Sherlock's arm. “It’s all about winning. Thrill.”

“Pleasure,” Sherlock murmured.

“Yeah, I guess.”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “But it’s about chance. It’s mostly illogical. Gambling on the tables is stupid.”

“I know,” Greg said. “But the thrill, when you win? It’s like sex, only you can go to the casino whatever time of day it is. You don’t need to seduce the table, do you?”

Sherlock snorted, but stayed quiet.

“And when you’re losing, you still think you’re going to win the next time,” Greg continued. “Like your luck will come round.”

“Why did you stop?”

“Have you seen the state of this flat?” Greg snorted. “Had to before I lost it all. I didn’t gamble all my inheritance, but it was heading that way. And it just so happened that the week I was close to blowing a load of money, my boss sent me undercover. And there you were. Sex on bloody legs.”

Sherlock laughed, gazing up at him. “The drugs. It’s pleasure. And it’s peace. It’s like a safety blanket and a beat. Steady. A gentle thump, lulling and… Then it ends.”

“It ends and it’s pain,” Greg murmured, nodding. “So you do it again so the pain doesn’t come back.”

“It blocks out the world,” Sherlock whispered. “There’s too much of it. The words they say are loaded with meaning and. And I can’t understand them. I don’t see why they don’t see what I see. I don’t know why I have to protect their feelings.”

“Because if we went around hurting everybody’s feelings, then everyone would feel that same pain you do when you’re not taking drugs.”

“Stupid,” Sherlock muttered. “All of them.”

“Them?”

“Others. The ones who don’t see. Don’t see what’s in front of their eyes. They think they’re looking but they… they never see, they never try.”

“Not everyone’s as bright as you,” Greg said. “And not everyone wants to look. You reckon people want to care about your drugs? You reckon people want to deal with your problems? No way.”

“But you do.”

Greg hesitated for a second. “Do I?” he asked. “I sit here and I let you go through withdrawal again and again and I’ve never said ‘stop taking drugs’. I’ve never told you you’re an idiot or that I think you’re going to kill yourself.”

Sherlock turned to him then, reaching out and cupping his cheek. “Why else do you think I still come here?” he asked.

Greg stared at him for a moment, his eyes widening. “Oh,” he breathed out before kissing him. He let his lips brush against Sherlock’s, capturing Sherlock’s every breath with his mouth. He cradled Sherlock’s head in his hands, his tongue exploring the contours of his mouth. Sherlock hardly reacted, just let Greg explore. Let him draw him in. He wanted Greg to take him in, to breathe his oxygen into his lungs.

Illogical. Impossible. But he wanted it, craved it.

And Greg was never good at saying no to Sherlock and it wasn’t long until he had Sherlock lying on his front, two fingers buried inside. Sherlock pulled at the covers, shaking and watching colours flash before his eyes.

Drugs were pleasure and then pain. Sex was pleasure, but intimacy was pain. And Greg was pleasure and inevitable pain, but perhaps he was as good as any drug.

Greg rolled Sherlock onto his back, lifting one leg onto his shoulder. Sherlock tipped his head back as Greg pressed inside him, his mouth falling open in a silent cry of need. Sherlock dug his fingers into Greg’s shoulders, his moans lost in the room, shuddering with every hard thrust of Greg’s hips.

Pleasure was all he could cling to. The only light in a confusing and dark universe. Greg’s cock, pounding into him, their hearts racing, bodies slick with perspiration.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop,” Sherlock whispered against his lips, but it had to end and he couldn’t bear it. He came with a sob, overcome. He wished he could crawl inside Greg’s body and feel how he felt when he came inside Sherlock’s body. He wished he could discover if Greg felt it too - too much, not enough, too much pleasure, fear for the pain to come.

Hardly mattered. They panted together, breath mingling.

Sherlock couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t stand Greg and his ways and how he understood. He hated how Greg never left. He hated how he could never leave either.

As promised, Greg spent Christmas Day pressing a cool flannel to Sherlock’s forehead and lying with him on the bed.

The years rolled on. More drugs, more pain, more fights, heady sex against a wall. Until it was over. Intimacy was pain and that pain was cruel and constant.

Christmases came and went, and Sherlock spent every one of them at Greg’s side. Even those with Greg’s wife, with Tessa. He spent it with them, complaining about his brother, the incompetencies of Greg’s staff, the lack of good cases. He and Greg would play card games on the living room floor, Tessa watching films and feeling the twins kick inside of her.

And there was the final Christmas, the final one before John Watson. A few weeks before, Sherlock had relapsed after eight months clean, and wound up in hospital.

Greg hadn’t visited him during his stay, but Sherlock had gone to him once he’d been released.

He woke up on Christmas Day with his clothed back pressing against Greg’s side. He rolled over to face him, rubbing his nose against the side of Greg’s neck.

He smiled at Greg’s laugh and they kissed. Sex was lazy and easy. After breakfast, they went for a walk.

Greg had forced Sherlock to open a Christmas present early. It turned out to be a blue wool scarf and leather gloves and though Sherlock had rolled his eyes and protested at being treated like a child, he appreciated the gesture.

They walked through Regent’s Park, Greg pushing the stroller, Sherlock with one hand resting on the handle.

They discussed cases and changes in policing. The four of them, Sherlock, Greg and the twins, fed the ducks, though Sherlock put an end to it when he revealed the bread could make them fat and flightless.

It was one Christmas that went without a single hitch.

They finished the day with Greg between Sherlock’s legs, using his mouth to take him close to climax and then stopping. Over and over and over until the release finally came and the white lights behind his eyes reminded him of drugs. And Greg was his drug, something to use when he needed it.

A drug with deep brown eyes, a crooked, wide smile with straight white teeth. A drug with strong arms. A drug with both soft words and a firm hand. A drug with a heart. His heart, the never-ending, soothing thump. Thump. Thump.

* * *

Sherlock coughed into his hand, staring up at the horse. He pulled his blanket more tightly around himself, fingering the blue wool scarf. With a soft sigh, he reached for his phone. He was only supposed to use it in emergencies, but it was Greg or it was cocaine or heroin, and he had to keep his mind clear for the job tomorrow.

He found the number for Greg’s phone, mentally going through his work schedule. He wouldn’t be home. Biting his lip, Sherlock dialled the number. After several rings, Greg’s voice came down the line.

“Hi, this is Greg Lestrade. I’m probably at work at the moment or chasing after the kids. So leave me a message and I’ll catch up with you when I get home. Cheers. Bye.”

Sherlock hung up.

He took one deep breath and finished tying up his sling, staying quiet despite the hurt. “Merry Christmas, Lestrade,” Sherlock whispered.

The horse beside him snorted. 


End file.
